Maybe
by ellabby
Summary: In a small town in the 60s, Gabriella's mom leaves and life is never the same.


The summer I was eight, my mother made me a grilled cheese sandwich every morning for breakfast, served with a half a pickle and a bag of M&M's and a small bottle of root beer.

Sometimes, still, I can stare at the old white gas stove against the mustard yellow backsplash and see her there, making my breakfast— very early. Before the sun was even up, my mother would be there, her hair swept up and pinned and falling all over wearing the ratty robe my father, Mark, bought for her to wear in the hospital when I was born.

I loved the summer I was eight.

Six days before my ninth birthday, my mother was standing in front of the stove in her ratty "Gabriella" robe, not making my grilled cheese.

I watched the palm of her hand hover above the flame, inching lower and lower and I was fascinated— until my father walked in smelling like Old Spice, wearing his standard blue police officer uniform and shoving my mother away from the stove.

"Jesus, Maria, what the hell are you—"

"Feeling something, Mark," she said, and I still remember how she sounded— not like my mother at all.

Her chapped lips set in a smile and she wore no mascara that morning… and for the first time I noticed Mama looked… sad—which was silly.

Mother's don't get sad.

I stared at my empty plate and silently hated my dad— she was sad because of him.

That night I brushed my teeth next to my older brother Chad, who was eleven at the time, and I told him I saw Dad push Mama. I didn't mention the blue flame or the sad.

Chad spit in the sink and looked at me for a few seconds.

"Maybe she needed to be pushed," he said and tossed his toothbrush on the counter before walking out.

The year I was eight I had cold cereal for lunch every morning.

It was that year the unthinkable happened.

My mother burned dinner.

A roast chicken.

She locked herself in the bathroom and cried and I remember my Dad awkwardly putting black chicken, carrots and mashed potatoes on my and Chad's plates— and it looked so wrong; that wasn't his job.

We ate in silence, aside from the harsh sobs coming from the bathroom. My father asked me and Chad about school and reminded Chad to do his homework and the sobs kept coming from the bathroom.

Finally, my father stood up and told us to clean up dinner. I opened my mouth to whine- I was supposed to go down the street to Sharpay's- Sharpay Evans had just gotten purple lip gloss and matching nail polish.

"Don't be a baby," Chad said before I even got any words out.

Chad washed the dishes and I stood on the counter and put them away as he handed them to me.

"She's crying," I whispered to Chad as he handed me a plate.

"No shit," he said.

Chad was eleven by then and trying out rebellion— I thought he was the coolest person in the world.

"Why?" I asked, and Chad shrugged.

"I never heard her cry before," I said.

"You must be deaf," Chad said, turning back to the sink. "She locks herself in that bathroom and cries all night long."

"She does not," I retorted.

"She does, too," Chad said, up to his knobby elbows in dishwater.

"I don't believe you."

"That's probably good," he shrugged.

After dinner had been cleared and the kitchen was cleaned, I walked up the stairs confused as to what on earth my mother could possibly have to cry about… but mostly I was still longing for Sharpay and her purple nail polish.

I stopped outside the bathroom door and pressed my ear to it.

I heard my dad, whispering softly— I'd never heard my father whisper.

I heard Mama murmuring and still gasping from crying and I smelled cigarette smoke wafting from underneath the door.

"Quit eavesdropping, idiot," Chad said when he walked by, math book in hand.

"I need to know if she's okay," I said, much louder than I intended.

Chad looked at me for a second and then his shoulders sagged.

"Come on. You can come into my room. I'll let you work my stereo," he said.

And then I knew something must be very wrong.

I followed Chad and he did let me work his stereo and he didn't even yell when I got the treble button stuck or when I spilled an old glass of lemonade on his carpet.

I talked about Sharpay and how her dad was going to buy her a pink bike for her birthday and how she had a crush on Zeke— still.

I talked about how her twin brother Ryan was too young to be an altar boy now that he was nine.

Chad didn't listen, but he didn't tell me to shut up, either.

Mama didn't come out of that bathroom until long after I fell asleep on Chad's bed— where I would sleep fully clothed, shoes and all, for that whole year, every time I heard Mama crying in the bathroom.

On the hot, hazy last day of school, I sat with Sharpay on her porch, slurping red popsicle drips from my knuckles while trying to balance the popsicle.

"Do you think Zeke will come around this summer?"

"He lives four doors away. Probably," I said, inspecting the tip of my popsicle where a gnat landed.

"I hope he does…Lauren Mallory told me he told Ben Smith he thought I was cute. I'll bet he wants to see my new bike."

"Yeah, probably," I said absently, while Sharpay licked her popsicle stick clean. I didn't understand why Sharpay never shut up about Zeke.

He went to the negro school and was two grades ahead of us and I just… couldn't see what Sharpay liked about him. Not to mention her Mama would beat her til next Sunday if she found out Sharpay liked a black boy.

"Sharpay?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you like him so much?"

"He's… well… he's nice. And he has the prettiest eyes I've ever seen. And he doesn't lift up anyone's skirt at the park— he's a nice boy."

Mrs. Evans stepped out and ran a hand over the back of her neck, and it made her short blonde hair stick to the sides of her neck.

"It's hot out here, girls," she said, and handed us each a tumbler of iced tea, which I couldn't stand— but Sharpay's mother only let her have soda on special occasions.

Mrs. Evans was always going on and on about nice girls and nice boys, and telling Sharpay what was expected of nice young ladies.

It was no wonder Sharpay liked Zeke.

"I should go… dinner and all," I said, putting my tumbler down on the cobblestone porch.

"Okay. Come over tomorrow," Sharpay said and I pushed off the steps to walk the two blocks back to my house.

I remember running my hand along green, prickly shrubs and groaning at the prospect of meatloaf for dinner.

I thought about Zeke and I thought about my brother Chad and his friend Troy Bolton. They spit on my front porch and played baseball with no shoes on.

I wondered if Mrs. Evans thought they were nice boys.

I flung the screen door open and called for Mama.

But she wasn't in our yellow kitchen.

Mrs. Darbus was there instead, near our kitchen counter, holding two mugs of coffee.

I knew a handful of things about Mrs. Darbus: she loved theater and often wore tacky woven scarves tightly around her neck; her husband Mr. Darbus died from a heart attack two years ago, she had a big butt and when Mama had to have her appendix out she made us casseroles and came to cook my breakfast for that week— and she refused to make grilled cheese for breakfast.

I didn't like her.

"Oh, Mark," she said, but she was looking at me.

My head turned to Dad, who shouldn't have been home from work yet.

He was sitting at the kitchen table and his uniform looked wrinkly and he looked old.

He had one hand in his pocket and in his other hand was a piece of Mama's expensive light blue stationary.

"Where's Mama?" I asked, but a tiny part of me already knew, I think.

Mama had left.

Two weeks after Mama had left, I lay in Chad's bed, wide awake, waiting.

She'd come back.

Mama's can't just leave their kids. It's simply not how it's done.

"Quit wiggling around," Chad hissed at my feet.

"I can't."

"Then go to your own damn bed."

"When she comes back, I will," I whispered…just to get some kind of reaction. I desperately wanted to know Chad's take on Mama leaving—I wanted him to tell me to not be stupid—of course Mama would be back… because no one had said that to me yet.

No one said Mama would be back.

My chest hurt and my throat hurt and what would we do without Mama? Did Dad even know how to make grilled cheese?

Who would wash my clothes and go to the grocery store and set my hair in big curlers and make my Halloween costumes?

Who would be there in the mornings smiling and waiting for my hug? Or paint my toenails red? Or smell like gardenia and who would stay up late finishing my dioramas and make my dentists appointments?

Mama does those things.

I trembled and ached in the bed and at the foot Chad was frozen. My feet kicked at his head but he didn't move and my crying got louder and I was twisted in his plaid blue and green sheets that Mama bought from Macy's.

I wanted her.

I missed her,so bad that it scared me, that it panicked me until I choked and threw up all over my plaid-covered lap.

"Shit. Gabby? Dad!" Chad called and scrambled off the bed and out the door.

I shook and swiped at the vomit dribble on my chin. The smell of puke was warm and strong, and it made me want to puke again.

I looked down and my tears dripped into chunks of spaghetti and bits of salad… and if Mama were here, she'd get me a fresh nightgown and a fresh pillow case and a fresh glass of water and make me a bed on the couch.

But instead my dad walked in wearing his grey sweatpants and he didn't smell like cold cream, like Mama does after nine o'clock every night, with Chad scowling behind him.

"I want Mama," I said, defiant and sad.

Chad held his nose and glared at me.

"She's not here, Ella," my dad said kind of quietly and grainy. He pulled the sheet off of me, and he looked kind of green and like he was grossed out.

Mama never looked like that when I was sick.

"You okay? Feeling sick?" he asked and he put his calloused hand on my forehead and shrugged. "Why don't you, uh, change your pajamas—"

"I want Mama," I said, hiccupping harshly.

"You can go sleep back in your own bed—"

"Where am I gonna sleep?" Chad huffed.

"I want Mama," I said, louder this time, because where was she?

"Chad, take these sheets off the bed, Gabriella go to your own bed—"

"There's puke in her hair," Chad pointed, disgusted.

"I. Want. Mama."

"Hell," Dad mumbled, and used a clean part of sheet to swipe at my hair.

"She's gonna stink," Chad said.

"I want Mama."

"I know Ella—"

"I want Mama," I shrieked out loud and fierce.

"Okay, Ella, let's get this cleaned up and—"

"I want Mama!"

"Me too!" Dad shouted back in my face loud and low then he dropped the sheet and I froze.

He stood straight up and rubbed his hands over his face, over his scratchy jaw.

Chad stepped between Dad and the bed and pulled the sheets off of me slowly. I got up with shaky legs and went down the dim hall to the bathroom, all alone and smelling like sour throw up.

I got in the shower and combed my hair, from the ends up, just like Mama had taught me.

I walked back to my room, stepping over the pile of sheets Chad had left in the hallway and my Dad was at my door.

He looked saggy, leaning, like my door was the only thing in the world that could hold him up.

"Ella baby. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled like that… it's.." he went on absently, rubbing the back of his neck roughly. "Look, kiddo… we're all gonna be just fine… we just, we'll have to work together…"

"You should have been nicer to Mama," I whispered, reaching for my doorknob.

Because maybe if we would have "worked together" before, she'd be here.

Maybe he should understand.

My dad stared straight ahead and blinked once before I slipped into my room.

I woke up the next morning after Dad had already left for work and Mrs. Darbus was in the kitchen, making not grilled cheese.

I went to Sharpay's house, where there was still a mother and clean sheets and nothing had changed.

Or so I thought.

I sat on Sharpay's pink bed and flipped through her mother's old Woman's Day magazines, finding tips on the perfect at-home manicure and how to spice up your date night.

Sharpay sat at her purple and white vanity and smeared sparkly lip gloss all over her lips.

"Do you think Zeke will kiss me this summer?"

"Sure," I shrugged, already bored with this topic.

"When I get boobs, he'll kiss me for sure," Sharpay said, sticking her chest out and puckering her lips.

"Good luck," I mumbled.

"I heard Jason Cross thinks you're cute," Sharpay said.

"Gross."

"Well. You should maybe just see if you like him. I mean, your crush on Troy Bolton is—"

"I do not have a crush on Troy Bolton," I said, and my face burned and I was suddenly angry for no reason.

"Yes, you do. You get all red whenever he's around… but Gabriella. My mom says he probably isn't a nice boy. He smokes cigarettes and everyone knows how he is with girls and stuff—"

"He isn't like that. He's always with Chad, and all they do is play basketball and—"

"Okay," Sharpay said quietly.

She gave up way too easily.

"What's your problem, Sharpay?"

Sharpay pursed her lips then sighed.

"My mother said not to upset you… because your mom left and things must be hard for you right now."

"My Mama is coming back."

Sharpay didn't say anything.

"She is, Sharpay. You and your mom don't know anything," I said, and got up and walked out.

That evening I stood at the edge of our lawn, pretending to be a cheerleader while Troy held tight to the ball and waited for Chad, who had run inside for something to drink.

Troy tossed the ball in the air and caught it and I stared at his back and willed him to say something to me.

"Sucks about your mom," he finally said at the same moment he tossed the ball high above his head.

"Yeah," I said when he began bouncing the ball. "But… she's coming back."

"Oh," Troy said, and he dropped the ball and stretched out his arms.

"Or maybe not," I whispered, for the first time, out loud.

"Yeah, well…either way, it sucks," he said, and then he looked over his shoulder at me and shrugged.

"Why would she leave? Is she a bad mother?" I asked.

Because those questions had been on my mind lately, and for whatever reason, Troy was the only one I felt like asking.

"Nah. I dunno. Maybe she had reasons. People usually do," he said.

"What reasons?"

"Shoot… I don't know."

"Should I hate her?" I whispered.

"If I were you…" Troy said, picking his ball back up and Chad stepped onto our front porch, "I'd try very hard not to."

"Troy?"

"Huh?"

"I don't think she's ever coming back."


End file.
